Jason Zara Fantasy Writing

In my mind, one of the more interesting challenges that would face the survivors of an apocalypse is one of simple logistics. How do we feed everyone if all the crops burned? How do we defend ourselves if we don’t have weapons and armor. Perhaps most importantly, which do we prioritize, planting crops so we can feed ourselves or building defenses to stop those who can’t from raiding our supplies. 

I love the puzzle element of figuring all that out, in a fictional context, of course. One of my favorite parts of post-apocalyptic tv shows is seeing how they deal with these questions. The characters on The Walking Dead spend most of their time scrounging supplies from what used to be civilization. They also try to grow their own food, though that requires the ability to stay in one place, something they don’t seem to have much luck with. 

When it comes to my heroes, I want to address some of these same questions. The problem is, in a “swords & sorcery” genre, there is an expectation of action. There’s a reason they don’t call it “swords, sorcery & farming.” 

So, you can’t exactly write an action sequence based around the crops growing. (Killer Tomatoes being the exception?) Sitting around talking about harvests and acreage doesn’t exactly make for high fantasy, but I still want to touch on the topics. That left me with the psychological avenue. 

Nobility in this genre is generally used to everything being handed to them. They have servants, they have abundant resources and they certainly have never gone hungry. 

Hope was born as Datari Furita, and was destined to be a great shaman of her people. The oracles said she would endure great danger, and lead her people to a new future. Her piercing green eyes were said to be able to see the currents of magic all around her even as an infant. 

After the apocalypse, when Datari took the name “Hope,” it seemed that she was a bit naive and optimistic. The truth is another matter altogether. 

When fire rained from the sky, it killed everyone around Hope and her companions. They only survived by sheer fortune, falling into a crevice as the earth opened up. The crevice then sheltered them from the heavenly fires. 

While the group agreed to continue to their destination, to see what had happened to the capitol city and help survivors, Hope’s thoughts first turned to her home. Her people were nomads, living on the open plains with neither shelter nor structures. She was certain that her entire tribe was dead, but as long as she didn’t go north to verify it, she could maintain her Hope. Her name did refer to bringing Hope back to those who would rebuild, but deep inside it was even more about Hoping that she had a home and a family to return to. 

Her seeming obsession with keeping the horses safe comes from the same place. Her tribe’s strength was in its steeds, and they considered their horses to be almost like simple children. Every horse Hope saved, she imagined, represented one which was still alive somewhere on the northern plains. 

It dawned on me that I keep talking about how I’m getting to know the characters in the book, and that they are finding their voice and their path. The problem is, the book isn’t out there yet, so nobody else is getting to know the characters along with me. 

Pidir is the leader of the group, by both nature and talent. He is a gifted tactician with one weakness - ironically, he doesn’t recognize his own weakness. He is extraordinarily brave, especially if he is defending his friends or his beliefs. Because of that, he will face near-impossible odds without contemplating failure. Through a mixture of talent, luck, and companions who always have his back, he gets away with it, most of the time. 

Diplomacy is very much not Pidir’s thing. Unless it requires stabbing, in which case he is a master diplomat. Not that he particularly enjoys killing, but he is at his best when there is an enemy that needs to be dispatched. 

His motivation comes from the naivety of youth. When he was young, he heard tales of his father and uncle. They were soldiers, adventurers, warriors and heroes. It didn’t ever occur to Pidir that the tales could be exaggerated, he just knew that he wanted to follow in those incredibly large footsteps. 

Throughout his career, Pidir eventually learns some hard lessons, and makes some even harder decisions. He loses friends, makes enemies, and fights battles of all kinds. Whenever someone needs stabbing, Pidir is your guy. Sometimes, though, he is putting a suffering friend out of their misery, or saving hundreds of lives by taking one. 

Boy, the month of August has almost gotten away from me, and I have not come close to meeting my writing goals. I have less than ten days left to write another 4,000 words for the month. Fortunately, I have some great motivation in the form of a slave-driving daughter. 

The good news in the story is really coming together in my head. The characters seem to know right where they want to go and what they want to do when they get there. And while their sarcastic exchanges probably sound familiar to anyone who has ever spent any time around our house, they are also each developing a voice that is very much their own. 

This story actually was part of the campaign, but it was well outside the normal area and definitely had a "silly side adventure" feel to it. I'm not sure it will make the book, but this is the closest to a standard zombiepocalypse the game ever came. This is also much later in the careers of Pidir, Hope and Ilondra, when they had powerful magics at their command. I hope you enjoy your first full Tale of the Blademasters. 

Pidir, Hope and Ilondra trudged through the desert. It was hot and dry, just as they had expected. In the distance, the walls of the city were the only break in the endless desert. "The City of Howling Winds," was the name given by the Tri-Kings. The city was home to a vast ziggurat, rich palaces and soaring temples. It was also one of the few places where necromancy was practiced openly, with zombies performing the endless tasks of holding back the sands.

Apparently, the Tri-Kings had incorporated necromancy successfully into their society for many generations. It was accepted under the guise of a polite fiction – golems and other inanimate servants were not unheard of in the very magical kingdom. Necromancy was introduced, along with the Order of Servitude, keepers of the undead. The undead were not used where they were easily visible, mostly working by night, or out in the desert.

While there were some who found the practice distasteful, even the staunchest opponents had to admit it saved lives and resources. Shelters were maintained in the deep desert for travelers in need, but living workers would never be able to stay ahead of the encroaching sands. The undead would stack, carry and dig; a sandstorm could literally strip the flesh from a man’s bones. Even that would not stop an undead servant from completing its task.

Until now.

The Tri-Kings were powerful masters of all magic – of the mind, the earth and the spirit. Their ability to interweave the three magics in complex rituals allowed them to stretch their powers well beyond what any three mages could ever hope to accomplish separately. The ritual that created the Order of Servitude was focused on a massive gemstone which became the heart of the order, and its ability to control the undead minions. Acolytes who would normally struggle to compel a single undead could channel the power of the gem and easily direct dozens.

The gem was warded against theft, against magic, against incidental damage. It was not warded sufficiently when the heavens tore asunder and meteors rained down. Had the warding been weaker, the gem likely would have been destroyed, and the undead would likely have collapsed without its magic to sustain them. That would have been a powerful blow to the economy and functionality of the City of Howling Winds, but it could have been overcome.

Instead, the gem simply cracked. The magic that had been finely tuned to disperse from the gem like a prism instead escaped in a flood. The undead were made stronger, and were no longer to be controlled. Worse yet, every time a villager died, whether to accident, murder, or zombiepocalypse, the power of the gem raised them again, adding strength to the ever-growing undead horde.

Pidir and the others did not know all of this as they rode toward the city.

 ***

The trio rode slowly, the scraggly ponies provided by the Tri-Kings were used to this terrain, and appeared unbothered by the heat and the blowing sands. Pidir was slowly revising his vision of hell, as grit and sand found their way into every crack in his armor. Hope appeared unbothered, but Ilondra was disconcerted by the total lack of trees or cover. She also wasn’t much of a rider, though that problem would soon solve itself.

They had approached within about 100 yards of the wall when they first saw movement. Several sand dunes to either side of them began to shift unnaturally, and figures began to emerge from the sand. First a few, then a dozen, and before long more than two score creatures had emerged and began to advance on the group.

“I guess there are still zombies here,” Pidir said, drawing his blade. The icy-blue gem in the hilt glowed and the entire blade was engulfed in a blue aura. “It’s going to slow us down, but not for long.”

Ilondra was scanning the area, and noticed another group of creatures moving up from their right flank. “Do you want the bad news, or the worse news?” she asked Pidir.

Pidir as undaunted. “Both, of course.”

“The bad news,” Ilondra continued, “Is that there are closer to 60 of them counting this new group to our right.”

“Ha, bring ‘em on,” said Pidir.

“The worse news,” Ilondra added, sounding a bit concerned even as she knocked an arrow to her bowstring. “I don’t think they are zombies.”

Pidir and Hope both exclaimed in surprise at that. Following Ilondra’s gaze, they saw the figures advancing, not in the shambling walk of a zombie, but at an easy lope which was fast turning into a full sprint. The creatures had the desiccated flesh of zombies, but the glowing red eyes and wicked claws revealed their true nature – ghouls.

Pidir drew his sword, and Ilondra began firing arrows into the horde of undead. The enchanted arrows plunged deep into the creatures, and a pair dropped in their tracks. Several other arrows found purchase in arms, legs and torsos, having little effect on their targets. After a moment the runes on the arrows glowed brightly and they disappeared, ready to be fired from Ilondra’s quiver once again.

“I can keep this up all day,” Ilondra said. “But I’m not sure how much it is helping.”

Pidir started to respond with his usual bravado, prepared to wade into the horde and hack off limbs, but Hope cut him off.

“We won’t be able to save the ponies,” she said.

“What?” responded Pidir. “You’re worried about the ponies?”

“You can take care of yourself,” Hope said, already slipping into the familiar concentration that meant she was preparing a spell. “Let’s hope the ponies can, too.”

Hope’s hands glowed with an airy aura of magic, and she reached out to touch Pidir on the shoulder. She repeated the effort for Ilondra, and again for herself.

“I’ll get the ponies a head start,” she said. “Meet me on top of the wall.”

Even as she spoke, Hope wheeled her mount and called to the other mounts to follow. Three ponies and the pack mule raced off with Hope on the lead mount, while Ilondra and Pidir literally floated in place, their mounts having ridden out from beneath them.

“Might as well hack off a few heads on the way,” said Pidir, flying slowly toward the outer wall of the city. He turned expertly in mid-air, too high for the ghouls to reach, but low enough for his blade to reach them.

 ***

The three regrouped on the top of the city’s wall. From the vantage point they could see most of the city, and the hordes of shambling dead throughout the streets. Hope peered anxiously behind, until she could no longer make out the fleeing ponies, or the pack of ghouls pursuing them. “Good luck little ones,” she whispered.

Ilondra had started counting zombies in the city, quickly gave up as she passed two hundred. “Good luck to us, too,” she said quietly. “If we don’t figure out how to fix this, it’s going to be a long walk home.”

“How long can you keep us in the air?” Pidir asked Hope. He was studying the situation before him, weighing their tactical options. Hacking through hundreds of zombies sounded tiring, but it looked like there were a few other options.

“Thirty minutes without trouble,” Hope responded. “Longer if you don’t expect much else from my magic.”

Pidir pointed toward the sagging ziggurat which had once been home to the Order of Servitude. Though the building was largely collapsed in on itself, the powerful magic emanating from within could be felt as a vague sense of cold and unease. “It’s like death is poking us to see if we’re still alive,” whispered Ilondra.

Hope traced a brief rune of warding in the air, and the feeling of unease reduced somewhat. “There’s not much more I can do,” she said. “Don’t get dead.”

“Thanks for the tip,” responded Pidir.

While Pidir and Hope discussed the best way to reach the ziggurat, and what they might be able to do once they got there, Ilondra was drawn to a trickle of smoke from the northern edge of the city.

“Zombies don’t need cooking fires, right?” she asked, drawing the attention of the others. They followed her gaze to see a thin trickle of smoke emerging from the chimney of a large building, probably an inn. Numerous dead zombies could be seen outside the door, and the broken windows appeared to have been boarded up from inside.

“If whoever is in there has held out this long, they’ll just have to hold a little longer,” said Pidir. “Much as I’d like to help them, we need to turn off the giant death ball or it won’t matter.”

“We should let them know we’re here,” Hope said. “I’d hate for them to give up when rescue is this close.”

“That’s assuming they’re still alive at all,” Pidir began, but trailed off at Hope’s expression. “Yeah, yeah, yeah … let them know there is Hope, and make sure the horses are alright.”

Hope glared at him for a moment, then said simply, “Exactly.”

 ***

Hope renewed the enchantments which allowed them to fly, and the group rose high above the city before making their way to the inn. From the vantage of 100 yards up, it was easy to see where the city had been damaged in the cataclysm. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, were likely killed in the initial rain of fire. Then came the reign of terror.

To Pidir’s tactician’s eye, it was obvious where the survivors had tried to rally and make a stand as the recently deceased arose to join the undead servants of the city. The inn appeared to be the only building where the zombie hordes had been successfully held at bay. Ilondra did spot a pair of figures that did not appear to be zombies, apparently moving about freely. They looked to be human, and wore the black robes of the Order of Servitude. It appeared that while their magic no longer allowed them to command the undead, it still protected them.

“If members of the Order are still alive they should have done something,” Pidir growled, his eyes flashing with anger. “They should have saved these people.”

“Maybe they tried,” said Ilondra. “I only see two of them, there must have been dozens, before.”

“Let’s focus on the ones we can save,” said Hope. “And bring peace to the rest as soon as we can.”

They descended onto the roof of the inn, managing to avoid attracting the attention of the undead on the street below. Pidir approached the chimney where smoke still trickled up from inside, struck by the familiarity of the scene to the day the companions found Bradsher, trapped beneath the Order of the Blademasters compound. He hoped the results would be as positive.

“Hello the inn,” Pidir shouted into the chimney.  

“Who’s out there?” came an excited cry from within. “Are the zombies back under control?”

“We’re working on it,” responded Pidir. “What’s the situation in there?”

“Twelve survivors and one very tired cleric keeping us that way,” came the response. “We’re ok on supplies, and the barriers seem to be holding.”

“Ok then, hold tight,” Pidir called down to the survivors. “We should have this under control soon.”

“And here I thought Hope was the optimist,” muttered Ilondra.

***

 Pidir and the others took off from the roof of the inn and gradually made their way to hover above the ziggurat. The pulsing magic hit them in a wave. Hope later described it as if thousands of invisible hands were tearing at her essence, trying to rip free her soul. Ilondra was reminded of the dark things in the deep woods, always menacing at the edge of your awareness, sending a chill down your spine, but never seen.

Hope concentrated for a moment, opening her senses up to the orb.

“I think I can handle it,” said Hope, indicating the remnants of the magical structure which housed the gem. Several zombies shuffled nearby. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to go down there.”

“Ilondra, you’re on over-watch,” Pidir said. “I’ll keep them off of Hope, you keep them off my back.” He drew his sword and began to dive toward the zombies. “Let’s go.”

***

 Between the mobility of the flight spell and the enchantment of his blade, Pidir had no trouble dispatching the zombies in the immediate vicinity. Hope landed in the newly cleared space, already gathering her mystical energies about her. She drew deep, steady breaths, and a visible aura began to form around her hands. Breathe in, breathe out, the glow expanded. Breathe in, breathe out …

Pidir saw movement some 50 feet away. He stood easily, blade at the ready, not greatly concerned at the appearance of a single zombie. Ilondra, more attentive to detail as always, was firing her bow even as she called out a warning to Pidir. The mithril-tipped arrows streaked toward the target, only to turn aside at the last instant as the being waved its hand in an almost casual gesture of magic. Even as Ilondra’s cry – “that’s no zombie, Pidir” reached him, the creature pointed a finger at Pidir and unleashed a bolt of pulsing shadow. Pidir felt a moment of unearthly cold, and then his own blade flashed in response and the bolt was gone.

“Bad idea zombie,” Pidir called. “Or lich, or whatever you are.”

More arrows arced in from above, and while the creature was able to deflect most of them, two bit deep into its remaining flesh. The creature raised both arms, and the shadows cast upon the room began to stir. Soon a dozen wraiths, insubstantial images of warriors woven entirely of darkness, rose and moved to assault Pidir. Ilondra fired at one of the shades, and her arrow passed harmlessly through its incorporeal form.

“You get the caster,” Pidir called out to Ilondra. “I can handle these guys.”

***

 Hope continued to focus. The glowing aura now emanated from her hands, creating an orb of pure energy drawn from the depths of the earth itself. This energy was raw magic in its most natural form. Handling it was dangerous, but Hope was certain it would counter the unnatural aura of necromancy emanating from the gem. Well, almost certain. Breathe out, breathe in. Almost ready.

***

 Pidir was hard-pressed by the shadow warriors. His blade bit deeply, removing the head from one and dispersing its form. But it passed cleanly through the next, leaving Pidir off balance and exposing him to a strike from a shadowy blade. Just as it met his flesh the blade solidified, drawing a stinging line of blood across his biceps. Pidir smiled grimly, knew how knew how to fight these creatures.

Ilondra circled above, raining arrows on the caster in hopes of thwarting its spells even if she didn’t do any real damage. One arrow sank deep into the creature’s chest, and the cry that escaped from its mouth brought to mind the demon hordes of hell. It staggered back, clearly wounded, but as Ilondra took aim again, it motioned almost dismissively in her direction, and she began to fall.

Breathe in, breathe out. The glow began to slowly reach from Hope’s outstretched hands, expanding and preparing to surround the gem. The amber glow crept slowly forward, absorbing and trapping the darkness. Hope’s focus was intense, but she saw a familiar figure plummeting from the sky out of the corner of her eye. She had a split second to decide … stop the zombiepocalypse, or save her friend.

Pidir began a routine of defensive fighting, leaving an obvious opening which the shades would attempt to exploit every time. Pivot, parry, and while creature is still solid, strike. He had destroyed six of the shades using this method, and was preparing to strike number seven when Ilondra slowly drifted to the ground beside him. She reached into her quiver for a special, runed arrow with a red feather.

“I’ll make you a deal, Pidir,” she said. “I’ll take care of these guys if you’ll finish off the lich.”

“This I’ve gotta see,” muttered Pidir, already weaving his way past the shades. He lashed out at a shade as he passed, and his blade bit deep. He turned toward Ilondra to say “I left you five,” when she fired her arrow into the ground in the shades’ midst. The fireball burst forth, consuming the remaining shadow creatures, expanding to fill the space between Pidir and Ilondra, but leaving them both untouched.

“Not bad,” Pidir said, blinking his eyes against the sudden blinding glare. “My turn.”

Pidir charged the lich, his sword held before him to deflect and absorb the barrage of shadow bolts that flew his way. The air grew cold as he closed upon the creature, but it was nothing compared to the ice within his blade. Pidir prepared for a powerful, two-handed swing, intended to separate the head from the shoulders. The lich raised both arms, once again calling upon the powers of the shadow realms.

Breathe in, breathe out. Rebuild the aura. Ignore the distractions. Out stretched the amber glow …

The lich’s head flew from its body, even as the body crumbled to dust. The rising shadows fled as if before the noon sun. Hundreds of bodies came crashing to the earth, throughout the City of Howling Winds, and beyond.

“You’re welcome,” said Hope.

***

 The two acolytes and the dozen in the inn appeared to be the only survivors in the city. On the bright side, Pidir thought, zombies don’t care about loot, and nobody is left guarding the treasury. We’ll just help ourselves to our well-deserved pay, and call it a good day’s work.

Laden with gold, enthusiastic over their success, the trio decided to travel with the others until they reached civilization. The ponies, of course, were long gone, though it appeared they had made good their escape.

“Nice job everyone,” Pidir said.

“I told you it would be a long walk home,” Ilondra responded.

 ###

I’ve been watching a lot of NCIS on Netflix lately. It’s one of my favorite shows, and even though I’ve seen them all before, I still very much enjoy watching them again. One of the problems I’ve found, though, is that Netflix is not what the creators had in mind. 

Network television is meant to be watched on a weekly basis. This means that quirks, gags, and recurring themes might pop up two or three times in a month. Often enough to identify them as recurring, rarely enough to not be a problem. 

When you watch twenty episodes in a week, this becomes a bit more of a problem. And not just because I need to get out more. I can think of at least five episodes in the first few seasons where a bad guy appears to have one of the main characters at their mercy. They are going to be killed, or at least grievously wounded ... until the camera cuts away. 

When next we see our hero or heroine, they are looking quite smug, and the villain is bound, gagged and ready for prison. 

So what does this have to do with writing a book? First, I have found in writing that it is very easy to have the victory happen off-camera so you don’t have to detail exactly how it happened. Hurrah, the hero wins, move along. And while it can work on TV, especially if you don’t realize how often it is used, but it feels like cheating when I give my heroes an easy out. 

I’m starting to understand why people wait until they retire to write a book. Of course, unless that winning Lottery ticket comes through, retirement is nowhere close, so I guess I’m just going to need more determination. And cookies ... lots of cookies. My daughter is very encouraging in my writing (encouraging/nagging, two sides of the same coin, right?) so when we made cookies the other day she told me I could have one for every 500 words I wrote. 

Sadly, I’m either many words behind schedule, or many cookies ahead. 

Even when the cookies run out, I’m going to have to stick with the writing. On the plus side, the story is moving along nicely. I’m realizing that there will definitely have to be an index of characters so I can keep track of everybody, and avoid using names that sound too much alike.

Minor characters are yet another area that is much more difficult than I expected. I don’t want everyone the heroes meet to be a two-dimensional plot point, so I try to give them personality and a bit of story. But it is so easy to wander down those side paths and get lost. Pleasantly lost, but lost nonetheless. 

If only there was some sort of venue where I could share thoughts and details that I want to write, without cluttering up the book. Some sort of online writing forum ... hmmm, let me think about that. 

Now, if my alleged slow period at work actually stays slow, and my cookie-powered motivation actually keeps up, I’ll add profiles and backgrounds of minor characters to my to-do list. 

My characters are very much alive in my head. They have their own personalities, and if I try to write them doing or saying something that isn’t right for them, it strikes me pretty quickly and I get them back on course. 

The problem is I’m very much not a visual artist, or even a particularly visual person. Much as I feel like I know the characters, if you ask me what they look like I draw a blank. Sure, Pidir is probably tall and has a cool sword, Hope has her piercing green eyes. But in detail? 

I’m planning on hiring an artist to do some character sketches, and eventually a cover for the book. And I have to admit, I’m looking forward to seeing what the characters look like. I suspect there will be several versions that I reject because they aren’t right, but I just don’t know what “right” will look like. 

Two weeks and one new computer later, Pidir and the others are ready to resume their adventures. Much like me, they are a bit behind schedule, but we all still expect big things to come. 

I started with an outline of about 20 scenes that I thought would tell the story I wanted to tell. I knew there would be some additions and a few things would need to be expanded, but I really had no idea how much story there would be once the words got flowing. 

I’m at about a quarter of the word count I’d originally intended for the entire book, and through about a quarter of the scenes. Sounds like everything is right on pace, doesn’t it? The thing is, I expected the first few scenes to be the short ones. So now I’m not sure if the book will be longer, or if some scenes will have to be cut. I’m also approaching my busy season at work, and had hoped to finish this novel before things get too busy in October. The time lost on my vacation with no computer may have made that goal impossible, but I haven’t completely given up hope yet. Worse case, the book will be done in spring instead of fall. Best case, I’ll give up a lot of sleep and write a lot of stories. 

When playing role-playing games, the personality of our characters is often influenced by a favorite character from television or movies. So that leaves me with this giant loop of meta-reality as I write. 

The book is based on the game characters. The game characters are similar to movie characters. I don’t want the book to feel like a rip-off of the movie characters, but I want to tell their story. 

Fortunately, especially in the case of movies, truly new ideas are few and far between. The title of my blog post came from the Karate Kid ... no, not the original. Sigh. There’s something really wrong with being old enough that they are remaking many of my favorite childhood movies. Does Hollywood really think our attention span is that short? 

Ooh, cookies. What were we talking about again?

I think most writers would agree, writing can be addictive. I have written columns for newspapers, press releases, marketing blurbs, tv and radio ads, poems, stories and, so far, about 1/4th of a novel. No matter what I write, there is an incredible sense of satisfaction when you get it right. The frustration when you get it wrong, that’s a topic for another time. 

Yet another unexpected difficulty I’m running into with the novel, is it has me excite about writing again. I’m looking for that sense of exhilaration when I finish a piece that I’m happy with. Whether or not my writing is perfect, or is even any good by measurable standards, when I finish something to my satisfaction, that’s a great feeling. 

That feeling is there, to an extent, as I finish a chapter, or a scene. When a piece of the story comes out as intended, it makes me happy. But I also know there’s another piece that needs to be finished, and another, and another. Which leads me to the problem.

I’m trying to sit down to write three times a week at a minimum. If all of that time was spent on the novel, I’d probably be making good progress. I have hopes of completing the book by the end of summer, and that’s definitely going to take some doing at this point. 

But hey, I’ve got a blog now. And writing blog posts is fun, and satisfying, and I can get to the end in one sitting. Some of the ideas I have for the characters in the novel don’t fit the novel, so I write side stories and background pieces. And sometimes I just find that I’m in a creative mood and start jotting ideas or fragments of other stories. 

I’ve hit yet another “should I put this in there for the detail or skip it to get on with the story” part of the novel. The characters have finally reached their initial destination, and have taken an oath to train together as part of the Order of the Blademasters. They have vowed to uphold honor and justice, fight to defend those who cannot defend themselves and to be a family. 

There will be several weeks of extended training. Some of it would look something like this: 

The trio awoke at dawn, dragging their aching bodies out of bed for another day of grueling work. Yesterday, they practiced with their blades - strike and parry, parry and thrust, thrust and dodge. The motions had become almost automatic - just as their mentor intended them to. They had also been repeated so often that Ilondra wasn’t sure she could lift her blade this morning, let alone parry, thrust, repeat. 

Today’s workout was to serve two purposes. They would reinforce the defenses of the Citadel, as well as strengthening their muscles. In other words, they were going to spend the day hauling rocks ...

The alternative version of this, would be a brief mention of the trio training each morning, with forays out into the surrounding crowds in the afternoon. This would inform the readers that there is training going on, but the focus would be on the human interactions and difficulties resulting from said interactions. 

I’m starting to understand why they say editing is such a long process. I always figured if I have an interesting story in my head, it shouldn’t be that hard to put it on the page. Two months and about 10,000 words into the process, I’m realizing it is much more difficult than I expected.

Not surprisingly, I read a lot of fantasy books. One thing they tend to have in common is long-winded descriptiveness. When you meet a new character, it’s not just a handsome gentleman in fancy clothes. Oh no. There are usually paragraphs, if not pages, about his wardrobe, his rakishness, possibly an anecdote about that one time in the kitchen with the wenches ...

My problem is I just don’t care about the physical details. If the scene is important, I have no problem spending a few sentences describing it. But I have no interest in writing pages about architecture, wardrobe, piercing green eyes and flowing locks. When I’m reading, I’ll often skim paragraphs like that, knowing that I won’t really miss anything. 

The same can go for exposition. How much do you want to know about the (irrelevant) details of how the situation came about, and how much do you just want the heroes to get on with slaughtering some bad guys? 

My wife uses Gandalf as the prime example of this. I love all things Tolkien, but she does have a point - when Gandalf opens his mouth, you know that nothing else is going to happen for at least three pages. Sure, the smoke rings are a nice touch of character, and an amusing bit in the movie. But my god, if I ever write a scene where two characters are smoking and it takes ten pages, please feel free to tear them out and throw them away.

So I struggle with this on two points. First, I imagine all of that descriptive prose and flowery language helps make the book longer. I’m not entirely convinced this is necessary, but I don’t want my novel to be a novella, either. 

Second, and more importantly, is the question: Do my readers care about the description more than I do? I have an idea in my head of what the characters look like, what the world looks like. Since I’m writing the scenes, I can easily picture them as intended. If I don’t bother to tell you about the fancy scrollwork on the walls, the beautiful stained-glass windows and the arching buttresses (whatever those are), does the throne room not work for you? Or are you just happy I didn’t make you read two pages about what a throne room looks like and we got on with the stabbing?